


Wild Nights Should Be Our Luxury

by cherry_knots



Category: Anne of Green Gables - L. M. Montgomery, Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: Dry Humping, F/M, Frottage, In which Anne has no words for once and Gilbert does all the talking, Lily is a promising character so she makes an appearance, Propriety is very much ignored, Queen's College era y'all!, That's right back again with more Shirbert smut, This is...filthier than the last one, post-season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:14:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21615163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherry_knots/pseuds/cherry_knots
Summary: 'It's for his birthday, she reminds herself. It's his special day. I'm doing this all for him. God, she's going to kill him if they get caught.'In which Anne and Gilbert blatantly disregard Mrs. Blackmore's rules - and beyond - at the girls' boarding house, despite the danger they face of being discovered by one of the other residents.
Relationships: Gilbert Blythe & Anne Shirley, Gilbert Blythe/Anne Shirley
Comments: 16
Kudos: 444





	Wild Nights Should Be Our Luxury

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Emily Dickinson's poem 'Wild nights - Wild nights!'

They’ve returned from a glorious afternoon in Charlottetown, with tea and cake and a self-indulgent stroll around the park – all the things that two young people who have been courting each other for a while now would normally do. However, instead of silently mooning over one another across the table all day long (though they’d be lying if they didn’t admit they’ve done their fair share of such), they take the time to discuss their dreams, goals, ambitions, and their separate, though not entirely divorced lives at their respective colleges. Her laugh at a joke he cracks about one of his teachers is so hearty and loud that she earns a bevy of odd looks her direction at the café; though Gilbert could be embarrassed, he isn’t. He’s missed the sound of her laugh so much, along with her voice, her face, her entire being; they haven’t seen each other in months, and their only means of communication is through a lengthy exchange of letters. Likewise, Anne has spent this agonizingly long, lonely period without him yearning for those eyes of soulful hazel, which always had an iron grip on her heartstrings and exuded an irresistibly magnetic energy that draws her soul into the intimate crevices of his own.

But now he’s visiting for the weekend in celebration of his nineteenth birthday, having insisted beforehand that it was better if he took the long distance commute from the University of Toronto to Charlottetown rather than the other way round. Just as they’re on their way towards the boarding house near Queen’s College for him to drop her off before heading back to the lodge where he’s staying at, it begins to rain to a vicious downpour. In less than a minute they’re drenched from head to toe, and they’re arm in arm, racing along the dirt road to get to the house, boots and stockings and skirts and trousers becoming caked with watery mud. An unspoken agreement passes between them: he has to come inside with her. The problem is, they’ll have to bend one of Mrs. Blackmore’s house rules: suitors may only be seen in the parlour, on Saturdays, between two and four. Today is indeed a Saturday, however they’ve arrived two hours too late, and she certainly isn’t going to have him seen in the parlour, let alone the both of them together; not if she’s also willing to invite merciless teasing or reprimand from her fellow roommates or Mrs. Blackmore herself. So she drags him quickly through the front door, praying to the heavens above that nobody is watching them through the window.

While they’re sneaking up the stairs, they hear giggling and the sound of cards being slapped against wood; the other girls must be playing card games in the parlour. She tugs at his arm, directing him towards the door connected to the dormitory that she shares with her friends, who, blissfully and thankfully, are all downstairs. When she turns around after shutting the door as inconspicuously as possible, he’s mere inches away from her face, staring at her with a simmering intensity that simultaneously frustrates and disarms her, leaving her weak at the knees. A hand snakes around her arm, and he’s pulling her closer, and he’s kissing her. Not the chaste pecks of socially acceptable brevity that he’s been giving her in public – these kisses are more insistent and ardent, with the ferocity of an animal, the desperation of a starving man who’s been craving the same taste, the same tonic for far too long. The kind of kisses that let all his emotions and feelings for her flow from his depths and through her mouth in an endless stream.

Her head slams against the door as he cups her chin lovingly, possessively, humbly, his lips journeying along the side of her rosy cheek, then down her neck, like a ship traversing familiar waters. However, she’s worried that somebody might have heard the noise behind the door and stops him, informing him that she’s covered in mud and has to go wash off in the adjoining bathroom.

She strips down and lets her body sink slowly into the bathtub, her toes curled around the porcelain rim, reminding herself over and over that he’s currently hiding under her bed lest the maid Lily or one of the girls or – God forbid – her landlady walks in, and that she ought not to stay too long. A single finger hovers across the surface of the water, and it swirls idly, creating ripples between her legs. She imagines him on her left at the basin, bending down and staring in the mirror at her naked reflection amidst steamed glass. To her immediate alarm, she finds her fingers clinging lightly to the curls beneath her abdomen, sliding closer towards her bud, which is swelling up and growing pinker – borderline red – under soapy foam like a blossoming rose.

There’s no way she’s giving in to her own selfish needs right there in the bathtub when there’s a literal man still waiting in her bedroom, so she gets out, dries her hair and body, before realising with a creeping, sharp dread that she’d forgotten to retrieve a fresh change of clothes from her wardrobe. Her dress from that day is completely filthy and mud-soaked. Cursing the weather for so suddenly and rudely turning against her favor, she picks up the cleanest and driest item of clothing present – which, incidentally, is her chemise – throws it over herself, and marches boldly out of the bathroom before she ends up changing her mind and retreating back in.

Before she can grab her nightgown, however, she discovers he’s crawled back from under her bed and is now sitting at the foot of it, arms and legs crossed. He’s observing her with a newborn curiosity, almost like childlike wonder doused in lascivious hunger, his eyes hitting various marks on her body; from her bare shoulders to her dripping hair to the furious embarrassment and hopeless vulnerability in those identical pools of cerulean blue. Flushed bright pink from the bath and her own sense of mortification, she watches as a teasing, almost wolfish grin spreads wider across his face. _Oh, damn him,_ she thinks. _Damn him and that aggravatingly beautiful smile of his. Who does he think he is, not even having the grace or courtesy to feel embarrassed for me? Why does he always have to go around acting as if every girl he meets is an amusement to him, something to feed his curiosity and his constant need to provide himself to them?_ The worst part – the most humiliating part – is that she’s liking that kind of attention on her. She can feel the curved seam between the short, lace-trimmed legs of her chemise becoming terribly stained; at this rate she’s more wet down there than the rest of her body had been when she’d left the bath.

The longer she looks, however, the more she realises he isn’t mocking her in the least. He isn’t. He’s absolutely breathless, spellbound, enamored by her perfect curves and milky skin, spotted by patches of rosiness; his eyes are fully open, drinking in the sight as if her whole body is a holy grail in itself. If God could hear the thoughts building fervently in his mind, he’d go straight to hell for being tempted to take what he’s sure would be a heavenly journey along her passage. It must be, for he senses his trousers growing fuller with his own pathetically rapid arousal. For right now he wants nothing more than for the goddess over his soul, the queen of his heart, to bring him to his knees and teach him how to pray.

But then he notices how wide-eyed, how exposed and unguarded she is before him, and he has other ideas. He stands up, approaches her, brushes his fingers along the length of her arms, no longer encased in layer after imprisoning layer of cloth and fabric. He’s fixated both thoughtfully and thoughtlessly on the uncertainty in her eyes, and she returns the gaze, both unable and unwilling to sever the invisible wires that entangles them together, beginning to crackle with electric fervor. Before either of them realise it they’ve drawn the gap closed between them, her leg inching up towards his hip and his bigger, stronger arms wrapping her slender, graceful figure up as they begin to practically feast upon each other. Her hand, previously splayed flat across his chest, slips slyly down towards the band of his trousers, and he groans into the crook of her neck as those dainty, nimble fingers of hers perform the cruelest of tricks on the raging bulge underneath. She plays him like an instrument of flesh and muscle, searing hot and throbbing madly. He grabs her shoulders roughly and cranes his neck towards the side of her head.

“You’re gonna pay for that,” he whispers, the slick, dark tone of his voice trickling down her ear, provoking shivers that thrum deep towards her core. Then he’s lifted her up from the floor, thrown her onto her bed, and he’s crawling on all fours towards her, every inch and part of her quivering with fearful anticipation, kissing up her leg, over her knee, and along her inner thigh. He turns her over so that she’s flat on her stomach, her lower half arching upward like a feline, her cheek pressed against her pillow. She can’t see, but she can tell he’s ripped off every layer of clothing; however, as she’ll discover later, he only remains in his underwear. He’s resting his entire weight upon his hands, both of which are positioned on either side of her body; he’s hovering over her now, ebony dark curls nestled against glossy auburn tresses. The elegant outline of his nose brushes down her spine, breathing in the earthy fragrance of her silk-covered skin. Then his hands are clenching the meat of her thighs, and he finds his hips gravitating closer, until his groin, hot and heavy with desire, is lodged neatly between them.

He begins thrusting into the bulk of her lower body, breathing low and long and rugged as his hands crawl along her stomach and they hold her tightly against him. It starts gentle and progressively gets faster and more insistent as he grows more comfortable in his position. She’s gripping the headboard now, her head lowered as she pants softly and grinds against him in return. His hips wedge hers ever so wide, and her knees would easily collapse if she isn’t so effectively secured under his hands and thighs. They eventually hit a synchronized rhythm, as they’ve always done in their academic collaborations, as their intellectual likeness and compatibility have allowed; she feels as if they’re in this together, bouncing off of and working with each other to reach that peak on the mountain of their shared pleasure.

He buries his face into her shoulder; his fingers, clawing her ribs, is burning at the touch. So tangible and real. “Feel that?” he hisses hoarsely, those same fingers pinching the stubbly ends of her own breasts, causing her to bite hard on the edge of her pillowcase for fear of crying out, “Do you feel me right there? That’s how much I want you, sweetest Anne of Annes. God, I want you so damn much, you’re so beautiful, so pretty when you’re like this.” He bottoms out before ramming right back into her, and her eyelids flutter as this movement elicits a small, velvety moan from between her lips. “What do you think, my love? You like me doing this to you?”

When she fails to answer, he draws her closer to him still, nipping at the strap of fabric that has somehow slipped down the curve of her shoulder. “What is it? You’re usually quite talkative. What’s changed? Have I driven your eloquence out of you? Have I rendered you speechless?” His own erection threatens to pop his underwear open, but he continues to push with accumulating intensity against her, reveling in the mess she’s been made of by him; her mouth, her sweet and pert little mouth, is open against the pillow and her eyes are screwed shut. Her knuckles are whitening from how tightly she latches on the headboard.

Her mind is a blustery tempest of confusion and pleasure and want and need and – oh, God, she can’t even think of a single word to begin describing what she’s experiencing right now. A slim chink of rationality and reason, somewhere lost in all her vastly enveloping, all-consuming emotions, screams at her that there’s others downstairs. That one of them could walk up and walk into them at any given second; and if they do, not only will he never be allowed in this house again, but she’ll be fulfilling society’s perception of her as a dirty little orphan girl; with morals as loose as she is. But the persistent gyration of his thighs against hers, the deliciously thick length of him pressing into the flimsy material of her chemise, his lips on her neck and his hands cradling her body, invading her in the most intimate of ways – she can’t help but shut away that chink, draw it closed, and forget everything else, focusing solely on what matters above all else. Him and her. Her and him. _It’s for his birthday,_ she reminds herself. _It’s his special day. I’m doing this all for him._ God, she’s going to kill him if they get caught. That is, if she can still move after all this.

“Touch yourself,” he demands, “Go on.” And he’s guiding her fingers from one hand, away from the headboard, down her stomach and at last between her legs, and she gasps when she feels how drenched she’s become there. She begins to stroke herself rapidly, her fingers rubbing against the cloth that in turn kneads against her reddening lips. He kisses her hair, once kissed by the richest flames of the sun, while she trembles from the exertion.

“Yeah, that’s right. You’re just so damn needy, aren’t you? You need this. You need me.” She suddenly chokes on her own incomplete laughter, forcing it down halfway to keep as quiet as possible. He lays a hand on her wrist, connected to the one hand still on the headboard, where it tenses enormously, and she squeals at the jolt of pain that ripples there. “You think that’s funny, do you?” he snarls, and she melts into a puddle at the mere sound of his voice. It’s intoxicating, it’s loving and reverent in its roughness. “Funny that you need me? Funny how wet I’ve made you? You won’t be laughing when I’m through with you. God, I could make you scream if I wanted to.” She squirms under his hard grip and his unyielding gaze, humiliating herself with her own desperation and her own longing for more, for him to give his entire soul to her, to gratify her in the filthiest, most wicked way possible.

“Please,” she mumbles, feeling heady and light-headed with drunken ecstasy, “Please don’t stop.”

Their thighs continue to pound against each other, over and over again, and she can feel herself ascending towards the peak, that blissful, blissful peak…like an angel who’s just had her wings returned to her and she’s rising above the clouds, above the stars, and the heavens, oh, the heavens, it waits for her in the great big somewhere…

“Come to me, muse” – his voice, strained by the approaching summit of his own pleasure – “Come to me.”

Then she arrives. Boy, does she arrive. She arrives with a choked sob, an involuntary jerk of her hips, and a gushing torrent that leaks straight through her chemise, more than she has already. And he’s not too far behind her, his head lolling against hers in agonized excitement, growling “Yes, yes, God yes” and he’s so close – but then they hear footsteps. It’s travelling down the hallway, echoing and ringing loudly in their ears. Then he’s withdrawing from her, cursing under his breath, undoubtedly sore with the agony of his unfulfilled pilgrimage, and falling onto the floor to roll under the bed. Peeling herself from the sheets, she’s gotten up and tossed a nearby robe over herself just before the doorknob clicks and Lily enters the room, glancing dazed and confused at an incredibly frazzled Anne, her hair all mussed up and her face inexplicably flushed, as if she’d just run the entire perimeter of Charlottetown. Meanwhile, Anne can only conjure one coherent thought in her head: _Thank goodness Lily’s a deaf woman._

Lily’s hands begin turning and swiveling, fingers rising up and down, to form a sentence. _Are you alright, Miss Anne?_

Anne brings herself closer to Lily so she can read her lips well enough. “Perfectly fine. Just exceptional.” She tries to smile, but she isn’t fooling anyone.

_You look exhausted. And why are you only wearing a chemise under that robe?_

She blushes and pulls the robe over her heaving breasts. “I’m fine. Honestly. I just got back from town. It was his birthday today, you see, and I got caught in the rain, and – bath,” she finishes breathlessly, her thighs and knees still weak from the terrific orgasm that had flowered in her earlier. Because of _him_.

Lily immediately figures out who she’s referring to. She hands her a coy, knowing grin. _Yes, the Blythe boy. Hope he got what he wished for._

If only she knew.

_I’ll leave you alone, then. Best get dressed for dinner._ Then she’s out of the room, thank God, and Anne finally lets out the breath she’s been holding in for what seems like an eternity. She scrambles back towards her bed, and she yanks up her quilt, only to find him with his hand cupping his organ and his fist in his mouth, indulging himself as well as he can, before his back arches massively in tandem with his muffled groans. Then she’s helping him out; he’s gathering all his shed clothing together and tugging them back on, and she’s putting on a fresh new gown just so she can look presentable for dinner and not as if she’d just been romping in bed with a boy – a boy who wasn’t even supposed to be in the house at this time, might she add. He takes her in his arms, more gently and tenderly this time, and peppers her face with soft kiss after soft kiss before at last planting one on her lips.

“Thank you,” he murmurs sweetly, “I love you so much.”

She returns the sentiment, nuzzling against him, before pulling back abruptly. “Tomorrow,” she tells him, as firmly as her nearly spent strength will allow her, “we’re going to church together. Because we’re both awful heathens, just awful.”

He chuckles and gives her a series of final kisses - on the wrist where just a moment ago he'd almost bruised her. Now they have to figure out a way to get him out of the house without the others knowing.


End file.
